CHAPTER III.—WHENCE SHE CAME.
I led her into my back drawing-room—which apartment I use as a library and study—and turned up the drop-light on my writing-table.
Then I looked at her, and she looked at me.
She had said that she was young. I was not surprised to see that she was beautiful as well. I do not know that I can explain just what had prepared me for this discovery. Perhaps, in part, her voice, which was exquisitely sweet and melodious. Perhaps simply the tragical and romantic circumstances under which I had found her. However that may be, beautiful she indubitably was.
She wore no bonnet. Her hair, dark brown, curling, and abundant, was cut short like a boy's.
Her skin was fine in texture, and deathly pale. Her eyes, large, dark, liquid, were emotional and intelligent. Her mouth was generous in size, sensitive in form, and in colour perfect. But over her whole countenance was written legibly the signature of hard and fierce despair.
From throat to foot she was wrapped in a black waterproof cloak.
“Be seated,” I began. “Put yourself at ease in mind and body. And first of all, let me offer you a glass of wine.”
“You may spare yourself that trouble, sir,” she replied. “I have no appetite for wine.”
“But it will do you good. A single glass?”